Death on a Cold Street
by whatcatydidnext
Summary: The year is 1890, two years previously London had reeled under the spectre of Jack the Ripper. Inspector Magnus Martinsson is an ambitious young policeman, when the bodies of two women turn up in Idegranstad, he has no witnesses and little evidence. But hunting down the murderer leads him to a seemingly nameless girl, and to a darkness in himself that he scarcely knew existed.
1. Chapter 1

Death on a Cold Street.

Episode 1

The spring thaw had turned Idegranstad's thoroughfares into rivers of mud; summer then baked that mud into vicious furrows, these ruts held the foul smelling remains of every variation of shit known, the mix being heavily seasoned with the remains of rotting vegetables and the stink of butchered meat. The busy market towns streets boiled with a confusion of wagons, horses, and humanity.

A crush of man and beast moved about her, careless of her comfort, paying no heed even to her existence. Yet, in this crowd, she felt safe. Safe to breathe, walk, look about her, lead a life as others did.

"Nice bit of something to eat, girly?" A hot potato seller winked, and thrust the tempting fragment of his wares at her.

Shyly, she shook her head and stepped passed him.

But the scent took her. Eyes closed, she sucked in the pleasing aroma of food, and imagined herself an innocent again.

_Mama and Tante Felice sitting on the floor in their spoilt finery, like dressed up children. There is a gin jug between them, it's clear liquid being drunk from delicate, but chipped China cups. Then they sing, and giggle, till they sleep where they sit._

_And her? Why, she is curled in a quilt in the corner of their bed, eating a blackened hot potato with their last silver spoon._

_These were the memories that brought pleasure._

She became aware, in her thoughtfulness, of shouts more urgent than the norm. Close to her, the shoving had become aggressive, rather than casual. She found herself pushed aside into a stall. It shuddered and toppled over, sending apples and cabbages rolling, bouncing onto greasy cobbles. Pulling back straight, gripping what was left of the stall, she managed to save herself.

From the commotion behind her, ragged street urchins darted forward, scooping up the fallen merchandise, disappearing just as quickly back into the crowd.

A small, flashily dressed man lurched by her, again she had to steady herself.

He was followed by a shaven-headed hulk, lumbering up behind him, thrusting others out of his way.

_"Svensson, you cheatin' bastard. I'll have you!_" He made a grab at the smaller man, dragging him to the ground.

Immediately the big man was surrounded by smartly coated policemen, it took four of them to drag him down, and all four to contain him. The small man saw his chance and was trying to scrabble over a wooden fence into a yard.

"Oh, no you don't, Svensson!" A large hand caught the scruff of his neck; he was swung hard against the slatted fence, and held there. His assailant was a tall man, of easy authority.

The whole show fascinated both her, and the crowd.

The tall man's low crowned Homberg stayed firmly in place, his immaculate black coat, unwrinkled and snowy white shirt collar, sharp.

"You got 'im Inspector!" one of the crowd called.

"Indeed sir, indeed I have." He bent and whispered something to the man he held, who answered with a terrified look.

Holding back her sneer, she turned to move away. Her dislike of policemen had never left her. Their brutality and corruption had killed her mother, and likely her own fate too. She would never trust one.

But in the turn, she caught the eye of the Inspector; a fleeting look of interest was there.

Her colour drained; she must not attract attention, definitely not from the likes of him.

It was then she felt the slightest of tugs on her reticule. She hissed low and angrily pulled it back. There was a grunt, the grip loosened and was gone. Regaining her obscurity within the crowd, she eased herself back and walked away, heart pounding.

Inspector Martinsson slammed the wriggling man harder against the fence, grunting an oath at the distraction of a pretty, but unknown face. He twisted Svensson's arm up hard behind him, and his attention returned to the job in hand

###

Magnus Martinsson tossed the cab driver a small silver coin. High on his perch, the cabbie caught his fee, tipped his hat, flicked the reins, and clucked, 'walk on' to his horse.

Closing his eyes and pursing his lips, Magnus prepared to face the monthly ordeal.

His mother would try to make him feel guilty about leaving the child with her, about the rarity of his visits. He, in turn, would give her twenty reasons why the time was not right to make a home for a small girl, followed by a list of the arduous, not to say, extensive duties of an inspector in a modern police force.

The whole thing was utterly tiresome.

But sometimes the child, he could never bring himself to call her Brigitte, sometimes she would come into the room and he could swear he caught the scent of her mother's skin.

Even after five years the thought still tormented him.

Taking a deep pull on his cigarette, he scowled, and tossed it into the gutter. His mother would complain of the smell, but then that was one of the reasons he lit up so close to the house, he knew it would annoy her. He had faced down anarchists with bombs, fought armed ruffians, even argued publicly with a minister of justice on one occasion, but his mother was a totally different matter. So he resorted to silly games. They got him nowhere in particular, though, perversely, they made him feel better.

###

"Master Magnus!" Bertinsen was his mother's only manservant; the poor man always looked relieved when Magnus visited, his look said 'at last, another man.'

There was a distinct lack decorum in his mother's household that Magnus always savoured. 'Manners did not maketh man.' As a policeman, he knew that better than most.

"She's in the drawing room." The elderly man took the young masters hat and whispered, "In a proper mood too. Mind yourself."

Taking the man's advice he straightened his shoulders, boldly stepping into the den of the Martinsson lioness.

###

"Good day mother, I hope I find you well?"

"That you find me at all is a surprise." Etta Brun huffed. "I thought you'd forgotten where we lived." She eyed her son with a pained but not quite resigned look. She was not giving up; he would not win this childish nonsense. Her daughter-in-law had been a sweet child, too delicate for the married state and the rigours of childbirth. But it was the lot of women to suffer so, and the fate of men to take responsibility for their families. Magnus was her only child; he was strong and straight, handsome, clever and ambitious. A fine man, but he mourned too deep, far too deep, blamed himself for his wife's death. Guilt swallowed what should have been love for his daughter.

He had been the same when his father died. It became impossible to speak of her late husband as the boy would fall silent at the mention of him, refusing; it seemed, to acknowledge his father's passing. When she later remarried, Magnus left to study in England, rather than have to deal with his new stepfather. He only returned when poor Lars died too.

Etta gathered her fortitude and let the past shuffle back where it belonged. Her son and granddaughter needed all her attention.

"I was here the other day, don't fuss so. Does she have all she needs?" As the phrase passed his lips he knew his mother would launch into her 'the child's need for a father' speech. He must remember to be more careful with his words; conversations with his mother were not like dealing with the criminal classes. It was more like the diplomatic exchanges with the commissioner, a careful ballet of verbal skill. He was tired; maybe he was losing his touch? The arrest of Svensson and Nyman had been satisfying, but a touch... energetic.

_Energetic?_ He swore to himself. Christ, he was thirty-five, not fifty-five.

"Do you ever listen to me, or is it all for show?" She gave him a scathing look and snapped," And a beard? Really Magnus you look like an intellectual!"

"I wasn't aware that was an insult. But I beg pardon ma mere, official duties occupy my mind, and I'll shave, I wouldn't want to be mistaken for a man of intellect." He shrugged irritably. "You were saying?"

"I was about to tell you that the Lundquist house is up for sale. It would suit you and Brigitte very well. I could find you a decent housekeeper, a maid of all work, and more importantly a reliable nursemaid."

"The Lundquist house is too big, too expensive to run for just myself and..." He turned away, refusing, as usual to acknowledge the child's name. "And it's too far from the Commissariat; the journey would take too long."

"Last time the house was too close to town, unhealthy for a child you said!" Etta was losing patience, with her son. "This cannot continue, Magnus, I am an old woman, you must face your responsibility, find a home. A_ wife, a mother for the child_."

As he turned on his mother, anger at the very suggestion he could replace his adored Brigitte, welling forth, a sharp rap at the drawing room door drew him up.

Etta assumed a haughty smile and called, "Ah, good. Come in, child, your father is come to see you."

The world froze for him. The small form of his daughter stepped hesitantly into the room, followed by his mother's bustling housekeeper.

"And what do you say, young lady?" The proud grandmother's smile was soft and expectant.

The little girl stood gazing up at the impossibly tall man she knew to be her 'Father'. "Good-day-to-you-sir." She said the words she had been taught with care, twisting a curl of silver hair about her stubby finger. The giant never stayed long, all she had to do was please her grandmother. She dipped a clumsy curtsy, and waited. Magnus swallowed, looked at his mother, and shook his head. He'd wanted to be a father, God knows he did. Brigitte and he had planned this child's future together. A boy would be like him, fond of skiing, literature, music. A girl would be as beautiful as her mother, paint delicate water colours, dance, and sing like an angel. They would live a life of familial bliss.

Then Brigitte died giving him his perfect child. And with her died that dream.


	2. Chapter 2

OK, before anyone gets confused, this is John Bateman, I got the closest I could in the translation. He does used the name Bateman in the future. Sorry to anyone not confused, but after the problem with Ghost, I thought I make it clear from the outset.

Death on a Cold Street.

Episode 2

Johannes Lockaman stepped away from the body crumpled at his feet, straightened his back and used the delicate lacy scrap in his hand to carefully wipe his razor clean. Tossing the soiled kerchief back to its deceased owner, he walked away.  
Once out on the quiet street, he turned in the direction of the less wholesome district of the thriving garrison town, his pace unhurried. Why should it not be? Was he not, after all, just a man looking for a little amusement when his work was done?

###

The boarding house was of the better sort; clean, ordered and furnished with pious, self-righteous care. The walls hung with devotional texts and uplifting biblical scenes. Just the sort of place a young governess looking for work would feel comfortable, safe. There were gentlemen guests too, but only the most respectable, the most upright. Ladies occupied the top floor, gentlemen the first. There were absolutely no excuses a man could use to venture further. The sexes only came together at meal times and then at separate tables.

Christina Eklund, for that was her name at this time, had chosen the place for its reputation and respectable code. How long she could afford to stay was uncertain. Respectability, it seemed, cost money. Having pawned most of her jewellery, she was anxious that the remaining pieces should be saved, stitched carefully into a pocket in her corset. Destitution was a state she never wished to find herself in again. Caution with resources was a lesson she learned in childhood. Her mother's inability to manage money had brought them low, brought her to these very circumstances.

Laying out her now meagre wardrobe she chastised herself for not thinking more clearly when she had packed. One impractically white, but very pretty, day dress with seed pearl florets and fine embroidery. One coat of russet velvet with matching hat. One green Tweed costume, in the military style and a white organdie blouse to go with it. But all of them too expensive, too stylish for a governess seeking employment. She had purchased the plain navy serge skirt, knitted jacket and a straw boater as she had passed through Malmo. The outfit was cheap, but with the white blouse much more suitable for her purpose. Dressing her hair in a simple style she looked like any other woman in the street.  
It was then the thought came to her that she could sell her clothes, or perhaps exchange them? Not her petticoats, corset or silk combinations of course, those she could not possibly part with. Imperative as it was that she be unremarkable, the thought of previously worn underwear made her shudder.  
Her mind went to the incident that morning; the look the police inspector had given her. No, she wanted no such attention. No sly smiles or nods of appreciation from men.  
Thoughts of Harald returned sickening fear to her stomach. Incomplete childhood memories of a time before his ownership where cherished, but so few. They offered her little protection against the blight of his possession. Her education, what she ate, what she wore, how she sat at the backgammon board even, all were at his dictate. Then there were the other things he required of her, things that she…  
Things she would not think of!  
The day she reached thirteen he had established his claim upon her, and from that point he had done as he pleased.  
Well, no more. That was the past. Now a real future lay before her. She would no longer be the obedient plaything he had made her; she would shake off the habit of subservience. She would be the woman she should have been all along.

###

The bar at Madame Helga's was overly hot, the girls overly painted, and the customers overly drunk.  
Lockaman liked it that way.  
The price he'd paid for the girl he'd had was excessive. He had let all present know it, then made a fuss over the fact she was obviously not the virgin he had been promised by the madam. He had given the girl a good time of course, and why not? He liked whores and, as a rule, they liked him. There was a caste of honesty to them that 'decent' women sorely lacked in his opinion. When he was done with her he bought enough spirits to sink a ship, though most of these had, with care, found their way into a nearby plant pot.  
Now he sat with eyes closed, feigning sleep. No one would remember when he arrived, only that he had been there a long time. An established alibi was always useful at times like these.  
He considered his two remaining objects of interest: The bishop's daughter, at least that was her claim, and then the quiet governess. The first had struck him as flighty, too easy with her conversation. It was only an impression; but it would take little to establish the truth of the matter. He would play the suitor; persuade her to allow him his 'examination' in the guise of ardent caresses. If she proved to be what he was looking for his job was almost done. If she played the maiden in distress, denied him? Well, his razor was always to hand, and the end of one more little liar would be no great loss to the world.  
The unemployed governess, on the other hand, was a different matter. She moved well, but was tightly held. There was a tension there, more than just natural shyness. Fear perhaps?  
When the street urchin had tried to steal from her, there had been no screaming or commotion as many a young miss might have done. He himself had clamped the hot tongs from the potato oven about the brat's hand; the little villain had run off, blowing on the injured paw and swearing at him. But she raised no alarm, which was odd, after all the police were already present, already at hand. Instead she had just slipped away into the crowd. He found that evasion pleasing. It made him smile that she might well be afraid, but not so afraid that she was about to put her trust the authorities. Oh, she was hiding all right, but she did not fully fit his criteria. There was something about her that roused him in a way that the others had not. Any opportunity to 'examine' her would be a definite pleasure.  
But she was on his list.  
He sighed regretfully, letting the smoke of his cigar circle and caress his tongue, enjoying the peppery coffee flavour. His nose wrinkled, lips pursed, as slowly he expelled the twisting white vapour. Thinking of pleasures with such a woman caused a tightening in his groin. He swigged the last of the astringent liquid from his glass.  
Ah, but work was, after all, work.


	3. Chapter 3

Death on a Cold Street 3

The clothes dealer was rightly pleased with herself. It was the third time in as many days that the la-di-da miss had come to barter her high-class things for the wardrobe of a well turned out servant.

It was good business; the merchandise was of superior manufacture. 'Course such items could not be sold as they stood, it would take a few hours to unpick the trimmings, rosettes of velvet and satin, pearl buttons and the like. The bodice of one dress had little flowers made of seed pearls; those alone would fetch enough to cover the renting of her pitch for the year. Not that she'd sold the girl short; only the top-grade serge and cottons. She'd even thrown in a nice sturdy carpet-bag to carry the goods in.

Then, there was the silver piece the old man had paid her for giving him a nod when the girl came again. A runaway servant, he said. More like a runaway young wife from his leering manner. Not that it was her business; she'd done nothing wrong, not by her lights anyway.

A commotion erupted at one of the shadowy alleyways that led off the market square. The clothes dealer would have gone to take a look, but she had no one to guard her new precious goods.

###

"No, no, I'm not hurt…," The girl felt overpowered by the surge of the people around her. "I stumbled, that's all."

"Stumbled, my arse! The old bastard struck at you, I seen him," a large stallholder said, taking charge.

The circle of curious onlookers seemed more caught in their own versions of the incident than to want to hear her's.

The girl pulled her shawl tighter, as if there were protection in it. "No, no!" Her voice was lost in the flurry of questions and contradictory statements.

"What's happened then?"

"Some old man pushed her down."

"Pushed her, aye, and he did more than that, he had a knife!"

"No, she fell over. Drunk more than likely."

"Nah, it was that crazy man, cut a girls throat down by the station last week."

The arrival of a police officer at that point did little to calm the matter, but constable Wallander did his best. "Alright what's all the fuss? And I don't want to hear no more nonsense about no throat cuttin' understand? Stand aside there. Someone tell me what's occurred?" He shoved his way through the gawkers and busybodies.

"She was attacked by a crazy old man. I seen it!" The big stallholder preened in his special knowledge, and the crowd vigorously agreed with him.

But the pale girl before him had her eyes closed. She was clutching her grey knitted shawl to her chest with both hands. At her feet a large carpetbag lay on its side.

"Please, there was no attack…The…" She swayed, shook her head. "The elderly gentleman, he…I…stumbled…" Her knees folded, she slumped.

Wallander stepped forward and found himself supporting the limp body. He saw blood blossoming through the shawl. He caught her up, the nearest help he could think of was the police house.

A woman behind him cried out, "Oh, God in heaven, she's bleeding!"

"What did I tell you!" the stallholder exclaimed, with a smug nod to the crowd.

"Make way, make way, I said. She needs a doctor!" The urgency of the young constable's tone caused the curious to shuffle back, and Wallander did his duty.

###

From a discreet vantage point, an old gentleman straightened his back, loosened his shoulder and lost his rheumatic scowl, becoming once more a man in his prime. As he observed the disturbance, irritation turned to interest. The girl was lying, that was good. He chuckled quietly to himself; there was no mistake, she was indeed special. His quarry had been found. All that was needed now was to take her. That would be simple, once the police had finished with her.

###

The desk sergeant was not happy at the market riff-raff's invasion of his orderly police house. Never a patient man at the best of times, his back ramrod straight, full beard bristling, he confronted the cause of the disturbance. "What have you brought us now, Constable?"

Wallander was tempted to shout 'a dying woman, you old fart,' but thought better of it. "An injured lady, sergeant, I thought we might lay her on the cot in the inspector's office for the doctor to look at her?" The young officer grimaced and grunted in his exertions. The lass was not heavy, but with skirt and petticoats slipping, it was damn hard to keep his grip steady.

"Indeed, you will not!" the sergeant snapped. He called to one of the other men. "Don't just stand about looking useless. Get Svensson in with Nyman. Free up the other cell, she can lie in there." The sergeant nodded toward Wallander. "The inspector is in his office and would not be too pleased to share it with no beat up prostitute!"

Wallander rolled his eyes and staggered forward.

Clutching the girl's bag, the big meddling stall holder bustled in announcing to all who would listen, and many who weren't interested, that he'd seen the whole thing.

From the cells came a piteous wail. "You can't do that, he'll kill me!" Nyman fought to stay in the relative safety of his barred cell.

And all Hell broke loose.

##

In his office, shirtsleeves rolled up and fingers steepled under his chin, Magnus sat studying the papers on his desk. He had two murdered women in his district. It was not as if Idegranstad had not known murder before. The arrival of the railway, followed by the building of the barracks and subsequent influx of bored soldiery, had brought a rise in drunkenness and violent crime. No, brutal death was not unknown here. But these were different; the victims were respectable young women, a housemaid and a Sunday school teacher. Both were twenty-three years old and new to the area, both dark haired. He could find no other connection. But there was one detail that made this more perplexing, both had their bodices cut, slashed. The rest was as could be expected, their skirts raised up above the knee, rape seemed to taken place, and their throats had been cut. Whether this was done before or after the suspected rape, it was difficult to establish.

The local newspaper had not yet taken an interest in the crimes, but it was only a matter of time before they would find themselves with their very own Jack the Ripper. Magnus winced at the thought of the chaos that could result.

He'd requested all reports of similar murders or assaults from as far afield as he dared, but it would take time to gather such information. His run-in with the late Minister of Justice had given him a reputation. He was 'a young troublemaker with too many modern ideas for his own good'. As a result, he found a number of doors closed to him.

Unhooking his spectacles, he rubbed the bridge of his nose. Fatigue ate at him, he couldn't remember the last time he had slept in his apartment. Glancing at the camp bed across from his desk, he grunted. The bloody thing was deuced uncomfortable, but at least he didn't have to look at…

The usual rumble of voices outside his office had risen to a hellishly annoying level.

"For the love of God!'" He flung himself away from his desk, his chair hitting the file cabinets behind him. Wrenching open the door, he thundered at his subordinates, "What, in the name of all that's holy, is going on out here?"

Young Wallander staggered forward, with the insensible woman in his arms. "Sorry sir, the lady needs a…"

Magnus didn't wait for the rest of the explanation; he sighed and waved the struggling officer into his office, "Use the cot." Turning to the sergeant, he asked with exasperation, "Has the doctor been called?"

The older man had been hovering behind Wallander, hoping to see the lad reprimanded, he was disappointed. Bad temperedly he just shrugged.

"Well don't you think you should get him then?" The inspectors tone was not wasted on the sulking desk sergeant.

In the relative calm of the small glass-panelled office, Wallander stood back as Magnus squatted beside inert girl, drying blood clogged in her shawl. He hissed softly as he eased the bloody fabric away from her skin. The wound was straight, exactly matching the cut in the dress, not deep, but obviously from a remarkably keen blade. He drew a pristine white handkerchief from his pocket, and with delicate care, pressed it onto the wound. He studied her features. There was an echo of something in the curve of the lips, the heavy lidded eyes. A fleeting sense of recognition. She was certainly attractive, but he was sure if they had met he would have remembered her.

Disquiet rose as he glanced down, he was looking at a full, peaked breast. Just below the wound, pinned through the dark pink nub, was a small gold ring. Muscles in his throat contracted. He swallowed hard, a wave of disgust swept over him. It was brutal, who would do such a thing to a…Abruptly he sensed the Wallander close behind and this was a sight he didn't want to share. Gently, he pulled the edges of the girl's slit bodice over the improvised dressing. The bleeding had stopped and he needed to get as far as he could from the disturbingly abused flesh. Standing up, he said with almost lazy resignation, "Were you going to tell me what happened, or was I supposed to guess?" Crossing his arms over his chest, he leant back on his desk.

Wallander closed his eyes and spoke as if he were consulting his notebook. "The young lady stated that she stumbled and was assisted by an old gent." He opened his eyes. "Witnesses disagreed and state they saw her pushed into the alley by a tall elderly man, who then attacked her." Wallander drew a breath. "One said he saw the man pull a knife and slash the girl."

Martinsson hummed. As if the pierced nipple was not enough, he was now distracted by the expensive shoes. His eyes were drawn further, to a prettily curved ankle clad in an elegant silk stocking revealed by the untidy skirts. He also took in the fine lace of the petticoat. Strangely, the rest of her clothes, although smart, were cheap, of a sort worn by shop girls or lady stenographers. A battered and threadbare carpetbag, which he assumed to be hers, had been tossed in a corner.

"I think, that is, I believe, sir, she has had a lucky escape. I think the attacker would have cut her throat when he was done with her…sir." There was a silence, Wallander waited for his superior to comment.

"And what leads you to that particular gem constable?" Martinsson asked.

"Oh, sorry sir, but talk about the murdered women is rife in the streets." Wallander leant forward, and in a confidential tone added, "They're calling him 'The Berserker' on account of the way he cuts them about, sir."

"The Berserker, really?" The inspector raised an eyebrow and shook his head. The human propensity for blood lust never failed to mystify him. He knew he shouldn't be surprised; 'Jack the Ripper' had been a London sensation with Macabre Music hall re-enactments and grisly descriptions in the press. There seemed no end to the cheapening of the unfortunate women's appalling deaths.

He would not have a repeat here in his hometown.

"It's an odd thing though, sir, her denying she was attacked and all. Insisting she had stumbled and he helped her?"

"And then there is the question, where is our 'Good Samaritan'?" Martinsson added as he picked up her bag and rifled through its contents. With a satisfied flourish he pulled out a smaller reticule, and from that a wad of papers. "So, let's see who we have here." He leafed through various receipts and train tickets. "Ah, a bill from Hotel Primus in Malmo." He pursed his lips. "Not cheap." He looked down at her. "Not many young girls have that kind of money." He came to a large fold of paper, a passport. It was a poor forgery, but it gave them a name. "Our damsel in distress appears to be one 'Christina Eklund'."

Almost in answer, a soft sigh and murmured groan caught Magnus off guard. Carefully he slid the papers back where he found them. No need for her to know that he shared yet another of her secrets. "Go and see where that bloody doctor is."


	4. Chapter 4

Death on a Cold Street 4

She needed to escape from this place.  
Moving slightly, Christina winced. The wound burned, whether from its spiteful shallow depth or the iodine used to clean it, she wasn't sure. The sight of her bag in the corner heartened her. If she could find a way out to slip silently from the building it would be possible for her to fade again. Perhaps take the train to Stockholm, maybe a boat to America?  
Disappearing was proving more difficult than she had imagined. There was no choice of course. She, Sigyn Larsson, could no longer exist. 'Christina Eklund,' the name she had planned to use for her new life, might have to be abandoned too. But the idea of obtaining new papers drained her. That sort of help required money and the seeking out of the criminal fraternity. She shuddered at the thought of renewing such company.  
Unbidden thoughts of the man who had attacked her seeped though, what he had done, why he had done it? If she had not gone again to the market so soon, if she had only waited, perhaps the man would have chosen…another, cut some other woman, perhaps a blameless child!  
_Dear God, what sort of a person was she to wish such a thing? _  
Then manner with which he drew the knife, the delicacy of his touch after, all invaded her mind. Shivering, she brought her knees up, huddling into a foetal position.  
_No!_ Of necessity, she should think only of her escape, concentrate on her on original plan. She must become another person, a quiet, unassuming governess, hidden in a neat house, on a tidy street. She had an appointment to keep; the perfect respectable post. A well-to-do, God fearing widow with one child had need of a governess. There would be no possibility of meeting any of those she feared in such quietly, upright home. She would be safe to make a new life, out of sight, in a pleasant suburb.  
Curled on her side, eyes closing, she waited for the hubbub of voices to she need do was escape from this place.

###

Outside his office, inspector Martinsson paced, attempting to draw his agitation under control. "You saw it then?" Magnus said looking away from the doctor, trying to appear detached.  
"'La Anneux de sein' you mean?" Dr Ortman raised an eyebrow, nodded. "I've see one or two in my time." He looked at the young inspector and chuckled. "Made your old fellow stand to attention did it?"  
"She's a young girl, such things are…barbaric!" Magnus was not amused, however true it was. He shrugged. "But what I don't want is murder investigations complicated by what is no more than an incident," he complained. There was no way would not let his damned cock ruin his good sense. She was merely someone's runaway pet, the attacker was most likely just her protector coming looking for her. Just a bizarre coincidence.

The delicate curve of her breast, the pursed teat, its unsettling ornament, insinuated their way into his head once more. All his policeman's instinct told him it was connected. His rational mind knew it, but old guilt dragged him back to its shadowy corner.

"Well, if this is your 'Berserker,'" The doctor mused "he's getting cocky; doing such a thing almost within sight of a police house, in broad daylight?"  
"There is no 'Berserker'." The change of subject was welcome. "The whole thing, so far, is down to two murders that we think, only '_think'_ mind, were committed by the same person." Magnus ran restless fingers through his untidy hair. "The last thing we need is a homicidal phantom like Jack the Ripper. The London constabulary were made to look like blundering fools and more women died as a result. I refuse to let that happen here."

"Hmm, understandable." The doctor nodded, then not hiding his grin, asked, "And how are relations with the new Minister of Justice? Any better than Knudsen?"

Magnus shrugged, effecting disinterest. He didn't regret his rather public disagreement with the late, corrupt politician. But the man's recent death seemed to have brought it to the fore again. Some wits had even suggested the accident that led to Knudsen's death had been Martinsson's own work. Not that the swindling whoremonger didn't deserve some sort of retribution. "Just the usual efficiency memos, but I suspect I'm not on his 'favoured' list either."

"Well, Knudsen's wife is a very religious woman; she's presently turning him into the heroic defender of the holy Swedish nation. With her connections I doubt you'll be allowed to forget it."

"Oh, it was common knowledge he liked 'em young and was prepared to pay high. And I didn't even mention his fraudulent political and business dealings." Magnus was still offended that a man so corrupt could be allowed to hold such power.  
"You, young man, are an idealist. Not much chance of promotion for an honest man." The good doctor sighed; Magnus Martinsson was one of the hopes for a more modern, enlightened Sweden. To know he'd be beaten by the jaded old guard was disheartening. "We all know those sorts don't think the rules apply to them."  
"Hmm," was Magnus only answer.  
"Well, I'll be off now. I've more to do than commiserate with you boy." The older man clapped the inspector on the shoulder. "Get that young lady some hot sweet tea. She's drawn about the face. A too tight corset, the shock would explain her deep faint. The wound is superficial, twelve hours or so it will be well on its way to healed. Tell her to call at my office in a day's time, my nurse will check it. If necessary, redress it. I suspect she can afford the modest fee."

"Yes, yes of course." The statement brought the tightness back to Magnus's belly. In a tense gesture, he rubbed the flat of his hand absently on his chest. Hot, strong coffee and work were what he needed. Briskly he called to the desk sergeant with his requirements.  
Dr. Ortman left Magnus busying himself shuffling the sergeant's paperwork, reluctant to return to his office.  
If he had, he would have found it empty. Christina Eklund, and her carpet bag had gone.

###

Stealing silently along the astringent smelling corridor, Christina wished the bag were lighter and her childhood saints more helpful.  
_"You keep goin' girl. Back door leads to the stable, out onto the road."_  
She froze.  
The shaven headed hulk leaned into the bars of his cell and hissed again,_ "Don't you stop darlin', be off!"_Turning the corner she hadn't noticed the barred cells. What else might she have missed?  
_"That's helpin' a prisoner to escape that is!"_ the cowering dandy in the next cell squeaked.  
_"You shut your snide little mouth, Svensson, or I'll shut it for you. She ain't no prisoner!"_  
Even in her fear Christina felt gratitude to the big man. She smiled, nodded her thanks, and slipped into the stables.

###

A small street boy bobbed and weaved through the flurry of stallholders as they packed away their wares. He was breathless when he reached the smartly dressed man reading his paper in the café.  
"She come out by the stables. Do I get me money now?"  
"Where did she go? I don't pay till I know," Lockaman snapped.  
"Out through the stables and down the lane to the back of the old church," the boy sighed as if it were obvious.  
Lockaman flicked a coin, the child deftly caught it. "Stay around and useful boy, and there's more in it for you." With that Lockaman was gone.  
Humming and tucking the money in his cap, the boy smiled to himself. Regular work was always welcome.

###

Madame Hincks, the boarding house proprietress, stiffly returned Christina's nodded greeting and watched her '_guest_' climb the stairs to her room. Madame Hincks did not fraternize with the residents, nor did she approve of young women on their own in the city. This one in particular she held with suspicion. The girl arrived with little luggage, but very expensive clothes of a fashionable sort. Madame Hincks sniffed. The girl was loose, you could tell, entirely too many buttons on her fancy bodices for a respectable woman. And now the hussy wore the clothes of a maidservant!_ Oh,_ she knew something there was amiss. The girl appeared demur, quiet, but Hincks knew a slut when she saw one. The moment she could, that little madam would be out on the street where she belonged.

###

An hour later Lockaman had the street boy carry his travel bag into the boarding house. The boy was useful and bright; sometimes a positive combination, sometimes not.  
He disliked the look of the boarding house, the girl had chosen badly. The place was bound by rules and prohibitions; there would be no slipping in and out unnoticed. The eagle-eyed proprietress would know the coming and goings of all her customers, never a good thing in his eyes.  
He offered a casual smile to the vinegar faced woman behind the reception desk. "My name is Bateman, you have a booking for me?" Lockaman looked about him dispassionately. He handed Madam Hincks his card.  
She accepted it, and consulted her register.  
"Your servant mademoiselle. I trust dinner will be soon?" It was a simple matter to flatter women such as this. Nothing overt, just businesslike, almost abrupt. The title conveyed youth and a certain prettiness, though all he saw was sour, withered piety. But he would play his part. He was close now. He would soon have the prize, and after, perhaps take a well-earned holiday?


	5. Chapter 5

Death on a Cold Street 5

Wallander stood and listened as inspector Martinsson lay waste to his office. The young officer looked at the scrap of paper in his hand and swallowed deep. He was sure the lead was a good, the only one they'd had since the first body turned up in an Idegranstad alley.

But if the noise from within the closed room was an indicator of his superior's mood, he'd need armour before he got to pass it on.

"Politics, all bloody politics!" Magnus banged about his office, slamming draws and carelessly tossing sheaves of paper into the wastepaper basket.

Attempts to trace Christina Eklund had gotten him as far as the seedier enclaves of Malmo. Her passport, as he had thought, turned out to be the work of a second rate forger well known to the police there, but the investigation had come to a halt. Word from his superiors was 'the line of the enquiry is flawed; consequently it was a waste of police time.' The ministry saw it as a crime of the gutter, which was where he should have been looking: In the gutters of Idegranstad.

Fröken Eklund was apparently of no interest to the Malmo police. The theory that 'The Berserker' had been her attacker, but for some reason chosen not to kill her, was dismissed out of hand. A week had passed since the last body had been found and no further reports had come from other districts. The 'elderly gent' remained untraced and Fröken Eklund had disappeared into thin air. The formal received wisdom of his superiors was that the murderer had been a drunken sailor, who had now 'obviously' returned to his ship and was therefore no longer the Swedish authorities.

One of the few friends he had left at the ministry of justice, _unofficially_ let him know, that he would have no help from other police districts. Magnus's past was coming back to haunt him. It seemed Knudsen's widow was making the presence of her husband's ghost felt in all the right places.

And to top it all, his mother was, once more, being difficult about his infrequent visits, threatening to involve Brigitte's father. Magnus's father-in-law had been antagonistic to the marriage, when his daughter died, he blamed his son-in-law. However much he avoided getting close to his daughter, he could not countenance losing her completely. It would be like losing his angel all over again. Would his mother_ ever_ understand his position?

Magnus wrenched open his door and barked, "What do you want? More bad news I take it?"

"Well, yes and no sir." Wallander stood his ground. "The second hand clothes dealer, you know, her on the corner?"

"No, but go on." The inspector aimed a vicious kick at a cabinet draw, closing it. "I'm sure this will be fascinating."

Wallander coughed nervously. "Well she did a deal with a woman matching Fröken Eklund's description. And some very fine stuff she got too. Paris fashion, but made here, Stockholm she believes." Wallander warmed to his subject. "Very expensive, excellent workmanship, top class in fact."

"So, fascinating as your expertise in ladies fashion evidently is, exactly _where_ does this get us?" Magnus slumped into his chair. "We knew there was money somewhere; the boots, the stocking, the petticoats, all good quality." He rubbed his eyes. "It's obvious she's in hiding, we know that much." Drumming his long fingers on his chin, he looked up at the young officer, not really seeing him. "But why, and who from? What's her connection with our knife welding friend, why did he let her go?"

"Well sir, about the clothes…" Wallander was eager to add the next morsel. "The thing is the dealer found a monogram sewn into some of the handkerchiefs, the letters 'S and L'." He stood back; satisfied this would impress his boss.

Magnus didn't want to discourage the young man's enthusiasm, but this wasn't a great deal of help. "So?"

"Well, that'll be the woman's real name."

"No, that _could_ be the woman's initials, _or_ they could be the initials of a mistress she stole the stuff from, or was given it by, or bought it from, or…" He shrugged at the look of dejection. "But it's a start I suppose."

"'Course the dealer thinks she knows the dressmaker of at least one of the outfits."

The inspector sat up at that. _"And this you save for last?_ Where, who?"

Now this was a real lead.

"Woman in Stockholm, a court dressmaker. I have an address."

Magnus snatched the crumpled piece of paper Wallander held out.

"This," he slapped at the paper, "_This_ is actually getting somewhere!"

Only first he had to go to his mother's and listen as she criticised his lack of parenting skills. Then persuade her against this latest ill advised plan. He sighed. There was no getting out of it, he had to go. "We need this followed up, but…it has to be unofficial. There are…you know I have problems with the…?"

"Yes sir, everyone knows. But this is our first real lead sir, we can't just ignore it 'cos of those fools!'

"Hmm, I wish they were just fools, but it's damn politics." Magnus sighed. The boy's enthusiasm was commendable, but he had to understand he could be risking his job. "There's no official sanction for this, if you go you're on your own. You understand that?"

"I know sir, but it's my job. Murder is murder."

The inspector grinned. "Go see this woman. I want _anything_ she can tell you. Get the dealer to give you a list of the clothes she thinks this woman made for Fröken _S L_." Magnus fairly hissed the letters.

Wallander hesitated. "Yes sir, I should go now?"

"No lad, take a little break. No, second thoughts, have the rest of the day off. Policing is hard work, you need to rest before _chasing-down-a-murderer!"_

Martinsson's sarcasm was not lost on his subordinate. Wallander grinned. "Yes sir, now sir." He hovered. "Er, do I take the train…?"

Magnus frowned, then it occurred to him, the constable didn't have the money for the train fare. He reached into his pocket and drew out a handful of coins. This was unofficial; no petty cash slip could surface. It was one thing for him to take hostility from his bosses, but he wouldn't sacrifice a junior officer to the harpies at the ministry. "Tell no one where you are going and you report to me alone. I want everything, on my desk, by tomorrow afternoon."

###

This was life, a real life.

Her existence had been dry, empty. The world turned on Harald's mood; his triumphs always spite filled, his defeats likewise. Servants had tiptoed, retreated, cowered. There was never a joy that could be shown, the sunset, the flower, the strawberry ice, the simple pleasures they gave were to be denied, derided.

No, worse than that, they were to not even to be acknowledged.

But as Christina had sat in the pretty sunlit drawing room, smelt the fresh cut flowers, admired the dainty water colours on the walls, she knew the smiling faces around her were truly sustained by affection for one another. Even the servants were part of the little family. She could be part of this, she wanted this.

"I would be very happy if you would accept the position Fröken Dahl. I think you are eminently suitable, even without the glowing references. I have the feeling you are going to suit us all so well. "

There, the words were spoken. She was not dreaming, not imagining a perfect life. This was no childish flight of fancy. She was at last free of the cruel, hollow ugliness that Harald had fashioned her life from. New memories would be born. No more would the bitter sweet remembrances of her mother be her only pleasure.

This was life, a real life.

_Her real life._

Christina Dahl's prospective employer was ecstatic; this girl seemed perfect, everything they could wish for. Her references were good, but truthfully she would have taken her without them. It was the young woman herself who impressed her. She had watched her closely with her granddaughter, watched the gentle sense of fun, the patience. There was the possibility that it was all for show, there was no real way to tell, yet she had seen so many totally unsuitable candidates, and this child's goodness just rang so true.

"Of course my son will have the last word. But have no fear on it, he trusts my judgement implicitly." No doubt Magnus would just be relieved he had not had to bother with any of the details.


	6. Chapter 6

Death on a Cold Street 6

#Sorry for the delay, but here we are three in a row...#

The summer street was attractively appointed, tree lined with large, handsome villas placed opposite an excellent municipal park.

A fine district to live in, so nicely bourgeois.

Strolling beneath the shady canopy of birch trees, Lockaman took the air like a true English gent, all the while watching his little pigeon with more than professional interest.

Oh, but she looked happy. Her visit to the quiet suburban house had obviously been rewarding. He guessed she had secured a position in a sufficiently respectable home. Not that he could allow her to take up the post; a different, much more interesting idea had come to his mind.

He smiled to himself, respectable neighbourhood, a respectable home, now wouldn't she just fit _right_ in. His slight smile was more of a sneer, how ill-fitting the word _respectable_ was for her, for what he knew her to be.

Men passing in the street watched her slyly; it afforded him some pride that she was admired by others, gave her even more value. She was not strictly what would be considered beautiful, not fashionably so at least, but men looked, admired.

Was it the full figure, its elegant sway?

Maybe the mouth, so plump and ripe? And that mouth had temptations all its own.

Then those eyes, large, heavy lidded, always looking demurely down.

Except on that day in the street market, she hadn't looked down then, she met his eyes. It was intoxicating, almost unnerving. There had been resignation there, not the fear he had expected. When he cut her dress, it almost seemed as if…she let him. Seeing the crude thrust of that gold wire through the pretty swollen teat, all he could think to do was touch. He brushed his knuckle over it, she caught her breath, and he was hard in an instant.

It was a curious moment of awareness for him. Working, he was always detached, but touching that skin, looking into those wide golden eyes, he wanted to take her there against the rough brick wall of the alley. He wanted to posses that fine flesh, own it. He understood why she was so special, why she was his prey.

He shook himself, there was a job to do, he would befriend her, and then…

"Oh!"

Lockaman had stepped forward, colliding with a bassinette, its nursemaid smiling and blushing as he apologised. He never lost concentration.

_Never! _

"Again I'm so sorry Fröken, allow me?" He bent and picked up a fallen child's toy and dusted off his coat. As he turned back, the object of his too carnal interest was upon him.

Brow furrowed, Christina cocked her head. She knew this man, but how could that be? She knew no one here. That he smiled and tipped his hat made her falter more. How should she respond, what would a normal person do?

Lockaman saw his opportunity and took it. "Good day, Fröken, a fine day to walk in the park is it not?"

A polite young lady should answer the greeting of a stranger with firm civility. She remembered the instruction from her lessons on deportment. "I do not believe we are acquainted min herre?"

Lockaman blinked slowly and turned his head slightly, diffidently. "I apologise, please forgive a foreigner his bad manners." He bowed politely, stepped back. "John Bateman of Cumberland at your service." He looked up, a questioning, flirtatious smile on his lips. "We both board at the establishment of Fru Hincks."

That was why he was familiar, she remembered him now. Now she could converse with him, polite topics only of course. The weather perhaps, but nothing of a personal nature.

Then he held out his hand.

Christina knew this was polite, formal. However it was not for a lady to take a gentleman's hand. But then she was not a lady, not in her real life, or her assumed one. She was a…

She was a governess, a professional woman. Abruptly she reached out, took his proffered hand, and shook it vigorously. "Christina Dahl, pleased to meet you."

Lockaman smiled, he had his prey very nicely on his hook. "Well, Fröken Dahl, would you care for an ice? They do a fine glacée aux fraises at the café here, the strawberries are deliciously fresh." He was tempted to make reference to her lips, but refrained; it was too soon for such flirtatious words.

"That is my favourite! How odd you should say it." She looked up at his open handsome face. But the clear blue eyes held nothing but the promise of a pleasant stroll to a charming café and the childish treat she had not forgotten. This was normal. Now she lived as others did, why should she not enjoy such trifling pleasures?

"Then I shall spoil you with that small indulgence." He offered his arm, and, much to his satisfaction, she took it.

###

Magnus leaned his head against the back of the white garden chair and blew out the smoke from his cigarette. His mother's garden was beautiful, of course it was. Everything about his childhood home was perfect. That was why he wanted his daughter to grow up here. This was his latest reasoning to prevent his father-in-law taking her to live in his grand country house outside Malmo.

Beside him, his mother lectured on.

"I was thinking of taking a few days in the country, the stugan could do with airing. Do you think you could take a few days off, catch some crayfish with us?"

Magnus made a humming sound that his mother recognised as noncommittal.

"Of course you will have to consider a good school sooner or later, Josephine Lindt's granddaughter is already has a place at…_oh, what was the name, _the school in Lausanne, theone Brigitte attended? It certainly has a sparkling reputation, I could make enquires for the future?"

"_Certainly not_, she hated it, loathed it in fact," he snapped and stubbed out his cigarette in the dainty China bowl his mother reserved for his 'filthy habit'. He sat forward, watched the child sitting on the lawn with her dolls.

"Are you sure, her father was just saying how much she grew in those two years. Her accomplishments, her deportment…" Etta was being very careful, it was a ruse. If Magnus caught her in it he would be furious, but it had to be done. She knew well enough her daughter-in-law had hated the finishing school she attended.

"I will not hear of it. She will be schooled here, as…" he hesitated. "As Brigitte would have wished it, _as I wish it." _Magnus almost winced, it was the first time he had said his wife's name aloud since her funeral.

Etta glanced up and was surprised to see he was frowning at his daughter.

"Do you think she can miss what she's never known?"

"To miss what she has never known?" Etta sighed, would her son ever heal? "She will fill that gap with an ideal of her mother." 'Just as you have', was the unspoken thought that followed. She knew her son had forgotten the petty arguments, the jealousies, Brigitte's retreat into frail health whenever their exchanges became heated.

As the girl was motherless, Etta had taken it upon herself to speak of the physical side of marriage, to prepare her. Brigitte had shuddered and seriously assured her that Magnus was the perfect gentleman, he would never do such things.

But after the wedding she had seen the girl retreat from his touch, blanche at the mention of children. But what could she do, her own marriage to Magnus's father had been a passionate affair, Magnus had been conceived on their honeymoon. Oh, she knew the power and wonder of such energy, such lust. But Brigitte had been too fey, too innocent.

She glanced at her son; he seemed mesmerised by his child at play.

Magnus watched, deep in thought as his daughter, very formally, introduced all her dolls to one another, and then served them imaginary tea in imaginary cups.

"I want her to know…" He felt the gaping hole in his soul. "I want her to know love, mamma."

"Then love her, Magnus, love her."


	7. Chapter 7

Death on a Cold Street 7

_ "What the Devil!" _

Magnus jolted awake. For a confused instant, stared at his office door, then, grunting in weary recognition, sank back, rolling onto his side on the rigid camp bed. _"Damn!"_ Wrenching back he scowled. His painfully hard cock had jammed against the unforgiving canvas. Drawing his arm over his face to block out the world, he sought the dream again.

He needed to go back to the soft, sweetly full breasts, to go on tormenting them. He wanted to lay his cheek on pleasing silkiness, lazily suckle, tug with his tongue at the gold ring. He wanted to feel the hard metal on tender skin, then bite down just to hear a delicious whimper of pleasure. _Damn the woman, he could almost taste the spice of her flesh_. He knew if he'd looked up in the dream there would be Christina Eklund, lips wet and parted, eyes heavy with the same need as his.

Years of denial had left him raw. But conscious, guilt faced him down, even in his dreams, he failed his adored Brigitte.

###

Guests staying at Fru Hincks establishment were expected to be in their beds at an hour considered decent by the proprietress, which suited 'John Bateman' well. As the city watchman blew his horn sounding the hour of eight o'clock, guests nodded polite goodnights and made their way to solitary rooms.

All that is, excepting himself and his quarry.

His little pigeon sat in the corner of the comfortless parlour, earnestly reading. He, a few feet away, studied an English newspaper, all propriety observed. He had gained her trust in the park that day, with slight smiles, feigned confidences, fictitious virtuous honesty. Like the subtle master he was, he groomed his creature; in so short a time she became familiar with his presence, and he shaped his scheme to seduce. It was simple enough, and worked well. He had gained her trust, and now he would act.

At nine, she retired, offering him a tender, shy smile as she passed.

An hour later, he stood in the shadow of the stair well, waiting.

Up high in the clock tower of the church of St Maria, the watchman blew four, long mournful notes over the town. The hour was ten. Time enough, Lockaman decided, for her to have prepared for bed.

Listening at her door for a moment, then tapping lightly, he was rewarded with the soft rustling of bed linen, followed by the faint pad of bare feet. His mouth quirked in satisfaction as the door softly clicked open.

"Min herre?" Soft candle light flickered over a pale questioning face.

"Ah, splendid, you are still awake…" his brisk English tone too loud.

_ "Sssh_, _please you should not be here!"_

"But you dropped…" As he held out a religious tract he had picked up, there were the unmistakable sounds of Fru Hincks on her way up the first flight of stairs.

His timing was faultless.

_ "This is not mine, please go," _Christina whispered anxiously, trying to shut the door. Lockaman slyly moved his foot to prevent it.

"But surely you were reading it?" His manner was apologetic, but his foot remained in the door.

"Who is there?" Fru Hincks called from below.

Christina drew an anxious breath, peering past him into the shadows. The courteous, but persistent gentleman was a foreigner. He obviously failed to understand how improper his actions were.

Playacting surprise, then sudden inspiration, Lockaman shouldered his way forward, slipped his arm about her waist and swung her into the room, closing the door and blowing out the candle, all in smooth, elegant turns.

Breathless, Christina found herself held against his chest. His strength and self-possession filled her with alarm. Was he an assaulter of women? If she defended herself, the wrath of Fru Hincks would surely follow. Who would believe an out-of-work governess over a respectable English gentleman? The police could be involved, and that she could not risk.

The determined footfalls of the proprietress approached Christina's door. Lockaman, with delicate assurance, held a finger to her lips.

She needed no instruction to be silent; the threat was not just to her reputation, but to her freedom.

There was a sharp knock at the door.

"Fröken Eklund, are you in there?"

Another rap came, more urgent this time.

Lockaman raised his brows, nodded, urged her forward to answer the door.

Christina shook her head.

"Fröken, will you answer the door!"

Christina's panic rose, she could not look at the man next to her. She knew him only as the polite English gentleman with the disarming manner. Opening the door a fraction, she whispered, "It's very late. Was there something?" No lie, she would not lie if she did not have to.

"I heard noises on the landing. Were you out here?"

"No, did you see anyone?" Christina could feel him beside her. He rested his warm broad palm at the small of her back. He was so close she was sure Fru Hincks could not fail to hear his breathing. "Is there an intruder?"

The proprietress made a harrumphing sound and surveyed the guest she deemed errant. "No matter, just be certain of this, I know your sort. I saw you come in from the street with that Englishman and I'll have none of your indecency here, so mind yourself."

Christina was sure guilt and fear must have shown on her face.

Fru Hincks sniffed, turned on her heel, and mounted the uncarpeted stairway to her private rooms.

Lockaman took the appalled Christina by the waist, pushing his much larger body against hers, closing the door with the force of their bodies.

It was hopeless; there seemed no relief from the censure of others. She slumped back into the strong arms that held her. She had never thought to miss the cushioned prison Harald had built for her, but she did.

Before Harald, she was a child. After, he was always there. When she slept, when she woke. His portrait hung in the dining room, the drawing room, her bedroom, his eyes watching her. Even when he was away and she should have been free of him, there were his rules to be followed. There was no escaping Harald's governance.

Abruptly, she realised the Englishman still held her, even after the danger of discovery was passed. Reluctantly she lifted her head. "You must go ._ Please_." This man troubled her so, yet still…she felt curiously protected.

"Ha, I had forgotten the ogress and all her rules." His low voice was soft, reassuring. "But your instructional tract, you left it in the parlour." He allowed her to step back and turn. He smiled; she was wearing a nightgown. The cheap fabric was thin and he could clearly see the curve of gold on her dark nipple. He let out a low sigh. "But then why would you need to read such things as this in bed? I'm sure you have better ways to pass the dark hours." A fingertip skimmed the gold ring at her breast.

Christina clenched her teeth, she felt her body tense. She knew that coaxing touch, the soothing voice, Harald used it often. But there was something else, something she found alien.

_ She wanted him to touch her_, _wanted to touch him_.

Surely that was wrong, it must be? She knew now that everything Harald had done was wicked, and base. But this man's assured touch had her belly quivering, her skin tingling. In shame she tried to cover herself. "Please leave now. You have misjudged me."

"Oh, I think not." He took her chin between his thumb and forefinger, tilted her head, and looked into her eyes. "How many women have such a …decoration, if not to offer diversion to a lover, a little something for him to toy with?" He frowned, pursed his lips contemptuously. "Hmm, but such a modest trinket." He bent and whispered in her ear, "I would have given you considerably finer."

Christina jerked her chin from his hold, looked away, silent.

"Oh, sweetheart, you cannot be that shy." He chuckled and leant his arm above her on the door, stroking her hair. "Hmm, do you need to be led? Is that what this is for?" He touched the ring delicately with the tip of his index finger, noting with satisfaction that, this time, she shivered. "Ah, let me guess, there was to have been another, and a fine gold chain attached?" A man of diverse sexual sensibilities, he found the thought even more stimulating.

Feeling defeat draining her, she whispered, "Please, no more." Why was she drawn to him_, _she did not want to be? He had lied, pretended to be her friend, made her feel…normal.

Twisting out of his hold, she turned her back to him and stepped away. She tried to sound firm. "You must go."

"But then your lover changed his mind, I wonder why?" Lockaman ignored her attempt at control. Drawing closer and brushing a lock of hair from her shoulder, his arm slipped about her waist, drawing her back. His large hand cupped the unadorned breast. "Such a shame, I would like that." He flicked the swollen tip, dipped his head, and dragged a line of soft kisses below her ear.

She whimpered and covered his hand with hers, held him there. There was no understanding what she felt. She had only ever craved Harald's approval, never histouch. The urge to allow this man's intimate caresses was a confusing, but frightening temptation.

Lockaman smiled approvingly as he stroked her; she made the most delightful sounds. He relished the thought of her holding herself ready to do as he told her. Shoulders back, full breasts pushed forward, pulling the thin night gown prettily tight. He would taste those luscious treats soon enough.

She was a rare feast for a man. "Ah, and so my little devil comes sweetly to life."

He nipped softly at her earlobe, and drew off his coat.


	8. Chapter 8

Death on a Cold Street 8

How she came to be laying so exposed across her bed, Christina was unclear. In a tangle of obedience and need she had been ensnared.

_ No_, that was untrue, she'd moved _with_ him. It felt good to be petted and held again. There was an inviting safety in obedience; all she need do was surrender to one who knew better. There were worse things to be than servant to another's need.

"There," Lockaman breathed as he moved down her body. "Isn't this more… agreeable?" Every touch was efficient, measured. Each firm stroke of finger tips, every sucking nip at a pale curve, achieved its purpose, exquisite sighs hitching into breathless whines.

It was obvious she was no innocent and was, by nature, sensual. But experience told him she was not the calculating jade he had been led to believe. With her laid before him, skin aglow with the tint of hunger, the fine, plump contours of her belly, quivering. He wanted to bite hard, mark her.

It was not his one of his usual cravings.

Oh, this one may well prove a dangerously addictive pleasure.

Lowering his head, he nuzzled the dark cushion of her pubis, letting his tongue slip into the fold, barely grazing the delicate nub. The sound she made brought a greedy smile to his lips. Broad palms slid up, spanned her belly. Strong fingers slid to her waist, held her still, his tongue slithered and twisted, curling though her wetness.

"I…don't think… you should…Ah…" Christina flexed breathlessly beneath him, but it was her only resistance. Deftly moving over sensitised nerve endings, he ignored her ineffectual defiance.

Harald had been clumsy in his attentions, that much was now obvious to her. Sometimes, when he had been thwarted in business or his public office, he could be vicious. She would be the scapegoat, punished for his disappointments.

But this man was different, so aware, so knowing. He seemed intent on giving her pleasure. Harald had been surprised, alarmed even if she appeared to like what he did. Dutiful was what he wanted, mute subservience. On occasions she would pretend to pray as he touched her. It drove him when he could not get hard. She thought it might be sacrilegious, but her relationship with the saints had faded when she realised they would never intercede on her behalf. In her judgement they earned their abandonment.

Achingly sweet tremors grew deep in her; all thoughts came back to the stranger's brutally exacting tongue.

"Oh…you…devil!" She stifled the words with her hand. The low pulsing had grown to an unbearable roar, she rocked against him, keening, torn between wanting more and wanting the torment to end. "No…_please_…no!" She tried to twist away from him.

He snarled, "Yes!" Snatching her wrists, mercilessly holding her firm, he then again sucked her pearl between teeth and tongue…

And the world shattered about her.

Bucking and writhing beneath him, her explosive cry of pained pleasure was muffled by the palm of his hand.

Lockaman's chuckle was quiet, smug. Seeing a woman lost under his control was an indulgence, one of the few he allowed himself.

Satisfied now her sensual demon was fully woken, he would serve himself. She had never been properly tutored, of that he was certain. One man had kept her as a pet since childhood, and he knew that man for a fool. Lockaman felt no revulsion at the thought of a child used so. He was a pragmatic man. He did not understand the practice, it was not to his personal taste; his preference was for a full womanly body. Although in his work these things were useful to know.

Standing, he looked down at her as he loosened his shirt. "I take it that pleased you?"

Christina closed her eyes and nodded hesitantly. No words she knew were adequate, but she wanted more. Tilting her neck, she pushed her breasts forward, inviting him back.

"Good." His gaze never wavered as he unfastened his trousers, freed himself and moved up her body. He savoured the wickedly pierced flesh as he went, licking, tracing its shape, lifting the ring, twisting it, revelling in the breathy moans wrung from her.

Then he nipped, and moved on.

She was wet, ready for him. With an easy gliding motion, he was inside her. Christina chewed her lip. Harald had been squat, his 'thing' so small, sometimes she did not think it was within her. But this was thick and hard, and filled her, stretched her, _burned her_.

Rolling up to greet his thrust, she clenched her inner muscles, pulling him further in.

The breathless keening sound she made goaded him onwards; her gauche attempts to contain him merely added extra spice. Gritting his teeth and jerking himself deeper, he wickedly circled his hips, and she writhed harder against him.

There was beauty to this, perfection, and always,_ always_ the knowledge that whatever he chose to do, she'd consent to it. Placing his forearms aside her head, supporting the heavy slide of his body into hers, he bit carelessly at her ear lobe.

Christina felt she would break in two, every muscle drawn tense; breath came incomplete, leaving her dizzy, dark spots behind her eyes. The crushing fullness was so right, so different from anything she knew.

Nerves taut, shivering with the vibration of each thrust, she reached up, straining for his mouth. She wanted, _needed_ to kiss him, but he reared back out of reach. She whimpered, knowing herself pathetic.

He wanted none of that; he didn't kiss the mouth that would suck his cock, instead he thrust harder, more roughly. This was his amusement, his game, his rules. His pounding reminding her who the master was.

The tightening, slippery flutter of her climax when it came again made him laugh aloud, dammed if he cared who heard now. With a series of animal grunts he sank himself harder into her, his balls slapping noisily against her.

He came with an exultant hiss.

Christina bit back tears. This was her, Harald's wife had been right; she was nothing but a simple-minded whore, just like her mother.


End file.
